Badger and Bread
by PlaidButterfly
Summary: Every castle needs servants... even Bast Castle on Vjun. And every Lord needs a cook... even Lord Vader.


The Kiffar woman spun around in circles at the entrance to the daunting castle, trying to drink in as much as she possibly could of the surroundings, despite the fact that Vjun was not exactly the most scenic spot in the galaxy. The acid rain pattered into the battle-worn old stock pot she held out in front of her as she gawked. After a long moment, the stormtrooper grabbed her arm and yanked her rather roughly out of the rain. "If you stay out there, it's going to melt that tattoo right off your face," he grumbled peevishly.

"Oh! - Oh, sorry - sorry." She laughed nervously. "It's just - this is the longest I've been outdoors in a long while, and..." Although her face was lit up in a smile, it quickly darkened as she looked to the stormtrooper. It was clear, even despite the helm, that he didn't care. "S... sorry."

"I can show you to the kitchens now, if you'd like."

"Yes... yes. Thank you." She grimaced a little to herself, hanging her head. The inside of the castle was far more clean and clinical than she should have anticipated. It was the realm of a man who did not have patience for antique vases. But it still flummoxed her, from what she knew. "This _is_ Lord Vader's castle... right?"

"Of course it is," the stormtrooper said, sounding annoyed. She lingered again as they passed through a hallway with a wide window showing the continuous acidic thunderstorms outside, and it took the stormtrooper clearing his throat to hurry her along. As she chased after him, she continued to cling to her old soup-pot. From the tattered clothing she wore, it was easy to see that, most likely, the pot was her only real possession. "The kitchens are down that hallway. First door on the left. Vader will be expecting dinner in four hours."

"And... when dinner is over?"

"If you're still alive, you'll be assigned a room."

She stared at the stormtrooper as he went before giving a solid gulp and wandering into the kitchen.

It was a wonderland of fresh ingredients and new equipment. She wondered if they had ever been used - it certainly didn't look that way. But there was fresh fruit, fresh vegetables... she just barely knew the names of half of them. The knives were so sharp she was amazed. And the first half-hour was lost as she wandered in and out of the pantry, picking up each piece of produce, slicing into it and tasting each sliver by sliver, seeing the fragrant oil from the rind spray off into the air. There was nothing in cans, nothing dehydrated. She hardly knew where to start.

Fortunately she was broken out of her reverie by a soft knock on the door. She shrieked, fumbling with the knife and dropping the blood orange she was holding.

"Don't panic! It's all right," the man soothed, giving her a gentle smile as he stepped into the kitchen. "I just came to see how you were doing."

She laughed nervously. "I thought for a moment it was time for service already -"

"No, no, you've got another few hours." He was fairly handsome, she had to admit, well-groomed and dressed in a smart, though somewhat plain, uniform. "I came to see if you needed any help. My name's Dasje - Lord Vader's valet."

"Valet?" She somewhat shyly shook his extended hand.

"Well, majordomo. Servant, I guess. I don't know, he keeps changing my role every so often," he said with a small laugh. "I'm the person who comes when he yells Dasje." He smiled charmingly, and for the first time, she felt truly welcome. "You're from Kiffu, I take it?"

Gingerly, she reached up to touch her chin and the three blue lines tattooed there. "Oh - yeah, I'm Kiffar. ...I forget half the time," she admitted sheepishly. "I was, um... I was taken into slavery when I was six," she explained softly. "My name's Mirou, by the way. Just... just Mirou. I don't remember my clan."

"I'm just Dasje, so it's fine. Normally it would be my status - I'm from Hargeeva. My family's meant to serve one of the royal families as servants, it's what we've always done, but - well, the prince I was supposed to serve decided it would be best if I was to serve Lord Vader, instead. ...but can I help you with anything?"

"Um -" She paused, blushing. "If you'd help me chop some of these, maybe...?"

"Of course." For a moment she couldn't help just simply smiling back at him. "I mean, I have a good idea of what I'm planning for a menu. It's all so fresh..."

"There's new produce flown in every two weeks, yeah. If you need to request anything, I'm sure I can get the order in."

"Oh no, no, it's - it's all so wonderful," she said giddily. "Should I be cooking for the staff as well?"

"Only if you like. I know most of the 501st get into the tough guy mindset and want to eat only nutrition bars, but don't let them bother you. Most of them think that being here is an excuse to brush everyone off and act high and mighty to everyone but Lord Vader. If you have any problems, tell me, and I'll tell _him_, and they'll answer for that."

"Assuming I'm still here by the morning."

"I'm sure you will be."

She blushed a little harder. "That's kind of you to say."

"I mean, I've been here seven years." The knife clicked against the cutting board as he helped her dice the vegetables. "Lord Vader isn't as terrifying as a lot of people assume. Well, I mean, he is, and he isn't. You just have to sort of stay out of his way."

"And cook well, if you're me," she said nervously. "I... I don't know. He _is_ terrifying. I saw him - when he stormed the slaver camp of the man who had just purchased me as a cook... I think he was trying to offer Lord Vader _me_ as some sort of bribe, but I just saw the lightsaber and..."

"It's one of the most beautiful things you'll ever see, isn't it? How Lord Vader deals with that, I mean."

"It is," she agreed softly.

The silence between them was comfortable, even as she started oil hissing in pans and sauces simmering on the stove. Occasionally they lapsed into conversation, but the food seemed to speak enough for them. As bright, fresh scents mellowed into complex sauces, she relaxed. And he did as well. For the first time in a long while, part of Bast Castle seemed like home.

Halfway through a bright red root vegetable, he grimaced at the soft beep coming from his wrist. "I'll be back later." His hand went to her shoulder for a brief moment. "Don't worry. Just cook. I'm sure you'll be fine."

And the fragrant steam rose up through the castle, teasing everyone with the smells - rich and meaty, bright and vibrant, tart married with sweet married with savory, spun sugar and caramelized glazes and crisp fat framing rich cuts...

Hours later, Dasje's boots clattered softly down the hall - not as loud as a stormtrooper's, or even Vader's, but a polite and small reminder that he was there. She, meanwhile, was slumped in a corner of the small kitchen, head buried in her hands. Her sobbing was eclipsed by the sounds of the food cooking in the kitchen, mostly because she was trying to muffle her distress in the arms of her worn coat.

"Mirou?" He asked softly.

"It's all going _wrong!_" She half wailed. "The aspic won't set, the roast - it's _too salty_ and it's burnt on one side - I can't serve this! Not to him! Not to _Lord Vader!_" She gave a shuddering sob. "He'll kill me! I know he'll kill me, all the things I've seen and heard..."

"Calm down, calm down! It can't be that bad," Dasje said nervously.

"It is! _It is!_ Not even the panna cotta will set! It's all ruined, I know it is -" Mirou gave another wail.

"I'm sure there's got to be something - wait, what's here, in this pot?" He pointed to the dented, worn stock pot she had brought with her. It was rocking back and forth softly on the stove, now, wobbly on its base. "It smells great, whatever it is."

"That's just the staff dinner," she mumbled miserably. "Mushroom curry, and then there's frybread to go with it keeping warm in the oven. It's not - it's nothing much..." He had already found a clean spoon, dipping into the pot to taste and giving an approving 'mmn' before grabbing a bowl.

"...You aren't going to -" She gaped as he quickly scooped out a serving into one of the pristine white bowls, placing it on a similarly brilliant plate with a piece of the frybread. "Oh no. No, no. You can't! It's _peasant food!_ He's a Lord, you can't serve that to him -"

Dasje held up a hand, smiling gently. "Trust me."

And before she could argue more, he was gone.

There was nothing more to do but stagger up and start to clean the kitchen. The ruined messes went into the trash. The panna cotta got no more time to set. If she was going to die, Mirou was sure she was going to die as a professional. A master chef didn't leave her kitchen in such a state, not even in death. Not that she was a master chef - she was just a slave who knew a few things in the kitchen and liked to flip through gourmet magazines when she was allowed. A numb sort of despair swept over her, and she wondered why she had ever expected anything less. She was sure, now, she was going to die. She wondered why she had ever gotten the hope of anything else.

At fist she assumed it was the clattering of one of the different pots and pans still on the stove, but when she realized that the sound coming down the hall was that of footsteps, and not just Dasje's, she tensed in nervous terror. She was still cowering behind a towel as Darth Vader swept into the room. Immediately she froze in his shadow like a young gosling in the sight of a ravenous hawk. The even-paced breathing didn't even give her a chance to brace herself for what she was sure would be, at the very least, a harsh lecture.

"Well done. But don't hold back on the spice next time."

Very slowly, she raised her eyes to see if the voice had really come from that mask, gaping a little. And Vader didn't say anything more, just giving a very subtle nod.

Fortunately, Dasje was there to catch her when she finally fainted in shock.


End file.
